Harrow hops down from the counter and inspects herself in the mirror, running her hands over the dome of her skull. "Perfection," she murmurs.

"I am not sick of you in the slightest, Griddle. I just don't recognize myself. Resisting the pleasures of the flesh was so much easier when they didn't..." She scoops cold cream out; they don't half go through towels in this suite.

"...look like you."